Settling
by crazywriter10
Summary: Things aren't quite right for Clint yet on his first mission post-Loki. A companion piece to Nesting.


For some reason, I kind of like angsty Clint. And there were a lot of you who really liked Nesting. So this is a sort of companion piece to it. Thanks again to the wonderful, creative minds at The Beta Branch for their help and support.

* * *

"_You're one of the best agents I've had. Don't forget you're also an Avenger now."_

The words pinged in the back of Clint's head as he crouched on the lip of the building, high enough above the street to have a vantage point but not so high as to be taken completely out of the action on the ground.

"_Hawkeye, do you have the target?"_

Clint rubbed his right ear – the one with the ear piece in it – against his shoulder. Everything about the voice on the other end was wrong. The cadence. The words.

The fact that it wasn't Phil Coulson.

It was the first time the Avengers had been called out in New York post-Loki. Clint, at the demand of Fury, had undergone a psych eval and was officially cleared from what felt like an overwhelming number of people for field work again. He had gladly grabbed his bow and taken off with the team when the call came in. Steve had looked at him a little sideways – mostly due to the silence – and even Tony kept his mouth shut around Barton.

There was a very Phil Coulson-sized pink elephant in the room – and in Clint's ear – and nobody really wanted to mention it.

"_Hawkeye, repeat, do you have the target?"_

The only thing Clint's brain kept screaming at him as he looked at the street through his site, was it wasn't Phil. It wasn't the right tone. The right words. The right _person._ And there wasn't a damn thing Clint could do to change it, which made it all the more frustrating for him.

"_Haw - "_

Clint picked the ear piece out with a snarl, shifting enough to crush it beneath his boot without ever taking his eyes off the street below.

_Thwap_. Nock. Draw. Find another. _Thwap_. Nock. Draw. Find another.

The pattern could have been repeatedly endlessly, and Clint lost himself in it until he couldn't find anyone else besides his teammates down below. He shifted again, looping his bow over his shoulder and using his hands to ease himself down so his legs hung off the edge. There was an expanse of city open to him, and if he craned a little to the left and looked between the buildings he could see one of the rivers. Whether it was the Hudson or the East, he wasn't sure, but he could see it, and with the sun glinting off it just right, it looked beautiful.

He didn't get much of a chance to enjoy the scenery from his perches. It was usually in, out, do the job, get down, find Phil, get the next assignment, and go.

"This a private party or can anyone join?"

Clint gestured to the rest of the ledge, not willing to confirm to Tony he hadn't heard the whirring of the Iron Man suit or the buzz from the thrusters. He was a little too far into his own headspace – which for anybody else in any situation would mean they'd wind up dead – but twenty or so stories above the New York City skyline with Iron Man now sitting in the same position, Clint knew he was safe.

A trust born of conflict, and cemented by the aftermath of events none of them had been able to fully control.

Tony's faceplate lifted and Clint spared him a small, sidelong glance.

"You took your ear piece out," Tony said neutrally.

"Yup." Probably hadn't made Cap very happy, but Steve could probably figure out why if he thought hard enough. And Steve was a smart cookie to begin with.

"It gets better," Tony said after a few moments of comfortable silence.

"I know." He did, too. Things had gotten better already. He slept in a bed more often than not, now, rather than waking up in the armchair in the mansion they'd moved from Stark Tower.

Stark let the silence stretch. He knew enough about Clint and Natasha – and the way they operated – that Clint would share when Clint was good and ready. Rushing him would be pointless. But Tony, in the right context, could do patience like nobody's business. And this was the right context.

"It's…Wrong." Clint drew his legs up and crossed them on the ledge, resting his forearms on his knees. On anyone else it would have been a contemplative, restful pose. Here, with the tension in Clint's back and shoulders, it was more like he was trying to stretch them. "It's just wrong." He looked at Tony, pleading with blue eyes for Stark to understand him. Tony must have on some level because he nodded.

"Not what you're used to." Tony gently bounced the heels of his boots against the cement, sending little chips and chunks toward the street. "That takes a little while."

"Yeah." He shrugged. "Sometimes it's still weird to walk into the kitchen and know that we're all living together. That it's my coffee cup and yours and Bruce's and Tasha's all together."

"And Steve," Tony added, because how could they forget Steve? They couldn't.

"And Steve," Clint agreed. He reached back and pulled an arrow – a broadhead – and slipped the sharpened edge under his thumbnail. A fidget. "Sometimes it doesn't feel right."

Tony let it linger and looked at the clouds in the sky, and the planes heading for what he figured was La Guardia. "Well…It's kinda not. Not going yet, anyway."

Clint let his head sag on his shoulders, dropping his chin to his chest. "I hate this."

"Well…Maybe the way to make it a little less wrong is to remember him instead of miss him," Tony said, eeking the words out like they might come back to bite him.

Barton didn't raise his head but he did turn it to look fully at Tony. "Huh?"

Tony shrugged, looking out at the glimpse of the river and the buildings. "Remember him."

Clint had a feeling he wasn't getting anymore than that out of Tony. So he wasn't surprised when Tony shoved off the ledge, firing up his thrusters to hover there. Out of the corner of his eye, Clint watched the metal gauntlet gently place something small and nearly round on the ledge by Clint's right knee before sinking toward the street. Curiosity got the better of him shortly after, and he looked.

An ear piece. Exactly like the one he'd crushed with his boot.

"_So. Hawkeye." Phil's voice was appropriately dry and skeptical in Clint's right ear as the archer scaled the fire escape._

"_Can't help what they call me," he said, looping his bow over his shoulder to scramble from the fire escape to the building ledge, dropping in one smooth motion onto the roof. The bow came off his shoulder, arrow nocked, and drawn to the anchor point by the time Clint crossed the roof, eyes searching automatically for his target. _

"_They actually call you that?"_

_Barton snorted. "Yeah. You got a problem with that?"_

"_Nope." There was a beat. "Hawkeye."_

_It sounded funny, almost comical coming from Phil's dry, slightly sardonic tone of voice, and Clint shook his head, though Phil couldn't see him. "You're going to abuse that."_

"_It's your name." Another pause. "Hawkeye."_

"_You know what, Phil?" Clint put extra emphasis on Coulson's first name as he found what he was looking for through his sight. "Call me Barton."_

_There was some chuckling on the other end, but before it could resonate through Clint's head, Phil was following it, all business-like, with, "Whatcha got, Barton?"_

Clint scrubbed a hand over his jaw with his left hand and put the ear piece in with his right. The agent on the other end was nearly frantic.

"_Hawkeye – Hawkeye do you – "_

"Hey!" It was an effective means to cut the tirade, and Clint pushed himself to his feet, making sure his bow was stationary while he looked for a fire escape to get down. "Call me Barton."


End file.
